


Gotham Nights

by coffeeandchocolate



Category: DCU (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: F/F, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 00:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15158273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandchocolate/pseuds/coffeeandchocolate
Summary: Emma needed some time away. Luckily, no one would have thought to look for her in Gotham.





	1. Chapter 1

The woman was blonde and beautiful, dressed entirely in expensive white. Diamonds glittered at her ears and throat, and she looked all too perfect to be sitting in a place like this. Ivy darted hot looks over at her, torn between debating going over and hoping the woman would look in her direction. As it turned out, the decision was made for her.

The woman bought her a drink.

It was some colourful cocktail with chunks of fruit in it that looked absurd on the battered bar. Exactly what she'd have ordered. She glanced from the glass to down the bar at the woman to see her raise her own glass in acknowledgement. Ivy slid out of her seat, clutching her drink, and moved to sit next to the stranger instead.

“Emma,” the woman said without prompting.

Ivy grinned at her. “Pamela. What’s a woman like you doing in a place like this?”

Emma cast her gaze around the dingy surroundings scornfully, perfect nose wrinkling in distaste. “I got sick of all the flatscans in my usual places. Thought I'd give this a try.”

“Oooh, you’re a mutant. That’s _hot_.”

Emma arched an eyebrow at her. “Glad to know you find my genetic sequence so attractive. I don’t generally lower myself to fraternizing with mutant fetishists, but…”

“Mutant fetishist?” Ivy repeated. “I am _not_ a mutant fetishist.”

“Really.” Emma dragged out the word, making it clear it wasn’t a question. “If that’s the case, why do I get the impression you’re wondering what I can do?”

Ivy leaned back, mouth opening in indignation. “I am affronted by that suggestion. That you would even _think_ that is absurd.”

“Of course.” Emma waited. Ivy made it all of about six seconds.

“So what can you do?” she asked. Emma smiled and leaned in close, breathing over the shell of her ear teasingly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

She pulled away, returning to sitting upright. To Ivy’s chagrin, Emma’s breathing was untroubled, and she didn’t have a single hair out of place. Ivy’s own pulse was up.

“Come on,” she cajoled, vaguely proud that she didn’t sound as flustered as she felt. “I show you mine, you show me yours?”

Emma sipped her drink delicately, lush lips leaving their imprint on the rim. “As tempting as that may be…I already know yours. Got another offer?”

“Oh, you know mine, do you?” Ivy said. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

“Do you?” Emma set down her glass, untroubled, and met Ivy’s gaze. “It _is_ Poison Ivy, is it not?”

Ivy’s eyes widened in momentary surprise. “Well, then, I stand corrected. Not scared?”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

Ivy blinked. She was torn between pouting and leaning in, intrigued. The latter won out. “You sure about that? Drinking with me…could be dangerous.”

“Could be fun.” Emma’s smile was as enigmatic as a cat’s, and the casual elegance with which she was draped over her barstool sent heat prickling through Ivy’s body. “I like a little danger.”

“Is that so?” Ivy said, and Emma nodded, eyes gleaming.

“Although,” she added, leaning in again and mirroring Ivy in the process, “I suppose the question should be if you do.”

Unable to resist another second, Ivy shuddered and closed the distance. Emma tasted of brandy. Normally, Ivy wasn’t much of a brandy person – it rather drew to mind old men with more money than taste and cough syrup. But the taste of it on Emma’s mouth was rapidly changing her mind.

Emma took control of the kiss, steering Ivy out of her stool and into the corner. Ivy enthusiastically followed her lead, letting Emma push her until her back hit the wall. Her left hand roamed Emma’s belly, settling over her ribs, thumb nestled between her breasts. She trailed her right over Emma’s hip, upper thigh, lower back, before letting it stray lower to rest against the woman’s ass, using it to yank her even closer.

She tore her mouth away from Emma’s, breaking their lip lock to mouth at her throat, to nibble and kiss her way down to Emma’s pale breasts, fondling one with her hand and burying her face in them. Emma curled her fist in Ivy’s hair and raised her chin to give her better access. It took Ivy a few seconds to process just what was going on – or more importantly, what wasn’t.

Emma’s chin, held so high and proud; the elegant lines of her still body; the even, unbothered breathing. She was so flawless, she could have been a statue, the centrepiece of any museum exhibit. No reaction to Ivy’s hands all over her, to Ivy’s mouth kissing and licking and lavishing her breasts with attention, not even to Ivy nipping at her and scraping the delicate skin with her teeth and making blood rush to the surface, turning the spot pink. Nothing.

Growling low in her throat, frustrated, Ivy straightened up to get to Emma’s face again, kissing her hard. Emma didn’t gasp, made no sounds of pleasure, nothing at all to indicate a loss of control, and Ivy frowned against her mouth, biting at the full lower lip to try to get a response. Emma kissed her back – and skillfully – but that was it. No desperation, no need, none of the same reaction that Ivy was used to getting from the people she kissed. She squeezed her ass. Swept a hand over her breast. Bit at her throat. Still, nothing. She kept at it.

As Ivy kissed her neck, Emma took advantage of the proximity of her mouth to Ivy’s ear, licking at the lobe and breathing, “My hotel is two streets over.”

Ivy suspected that the speed at which they got there could have qualified them for the Olympics.

* * *

Ivy pushed Emma down onto the bed and clambered on top of her, straddling her thighs, yanking off her pristine white clothing. Ivy took a second to take in the sight of the other woman’s naked body – pale, perfect skin; toned muscles; long, lean limbs. She licked her lips appreciatively and leaned forward, hands dropping to either side of Emma, hair falling in both of their faces.

“Are you just going to sit there all day or actually do something?” Emma snipped, rolling her hips. Ivy didn’t actually have time to react – before she could, Emma had flipped them over in a single, smooth motion. Ivy blinked in surprise, not entirely sure how she’d managed that, but unopposed to the new position.

“Damn,” she grinned, reaching up to palm at Emma’s breast with her left hand. She leaned forward to start sucking at her throat, mumbling her next sentences into skin. “That was pretty hot. So, how much do I have to blow your mind to get you to tell me what you can do?”

“Blow my mind?” Emma echoed. “Well, aren’t you full of yourself. So far I’m not seeing much of the advertised thrill.”

Ivy snorted. Even few minutes ago, she might have been offended by that, but Emma had started grinding against the heel of Ivy’s palm, and now – _finally_ – Ivy had evidence of her arousal.

“Tell you what,” she said. “Give me six minutes and you can change your mind then. I can’t wait to watch you eat your words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...don't know. I'm sorry. Thought I'd try something new.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hello, Emma.”

The voice was familiar, and when Emma looked up, she found the face was, too. Bruce Wayne was standing in front of her, drink in hand, looking just as out of place as she probably did.

Emma sighed exaggeratedly, bracing her elbows against the bar and resting her chin in her hands. “Even this place isn't safe? Pity, I was growing accustomed to it.”

“I just want to talk,” Wayne said, and she could feel the ring of truth. Even so, she snipped, “That’s what they all say.”

He pulled out the stool next to her and sat down. “Been a while, Emma.”

“Yes,” she drawled, widening her eyes with mock innocence. “Of course. You see, there’s a reason for that. That reason being that this city is a disgusting cesspool where no one should live. I don’t make it a point of spending much time here.”

Minute irritation flashed across his face. She smiled to herself with satisfaction. His buttons were so easy to push. But he didn’t relent. “Then what are you doing here now?”

How did anyone believe his drunken idiot act? Or the well-meaning, but not overly bright philanthropist? He didn’t ogle, rarely drank from the ever-present glass, and his eyes were sharply focused. Emma forced the thoughts away. Not her problem.

“Go away, Bruce.”

He didn’t go away.

She made to get up instead, but before she could, his hand closed around her wrist in a vicelike grip.

“Get your hands off me,” she ordered through gritted teeth, fighting against the impulse to shift to diamond, hands curling into fists against the bar. “I just wanted a drink, okay?”

“Christ, Emma, don't play dumb. We both know you’re a certified genius.”

“You’re one to talk,” she muttered, but that sounded petulant even to her.

“You ran a _school_. And now you're spending time in places like _this_? With people like Pamela Isley?”

She settled back into her chair and yanked her hand free, pointedly avoiding looking at him. “Oh, for God’s sake, were you _following_ me?”

“No,” he snapped. “I was keeping an eye on Poison Ivy. Now are you going to explain what you’re doing here?”

Emma drained her glass and set it down with exaggerated care, swivelling in her seat to face him. She tilted her head and pasted on a sarcastic grin, making sure to bare her teeth. “I needed a change of scenery. I find a few days away does wonders for clearing the head. You should try it sometime.”

“Emma.”

He said her name like it meant something, like it was something more than just a handful of letters someone else had chosen for her, more than just the most popular girl's name in the country. She didn’t know what he thought it meant, but she bristled anyway.

“I don’t owe you anything. Least of all an explanation. Pray tell, what _is_ your contingency plan for me?”

He didn’t answer. She kept pushing.

“Are you going to wander around in a helmet like Erik’s all day?” she sneered. “Get your friend Martian Manhunter to take care of it?”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “No.”

“Oh, really? No desire to throw a killer into Blackgate? What about Superman? Thinking about sending the alien to deal with the big, bad mutant?”

“No,” he repeated. Much to her annoyance, she didn’t even have to read his mind to know he was telling the truth. The sincerity was too obvious, in his face, his voice, and it was painful to observe. More than that, beyond the honesty…looking at him hurt.

He didn’t look like Scott. Not really. But something about him made her heart ache as she longed for the only man she had ever wanted to give a damn about her. And it would be a lie to say she didn’t know what that something was.

How many years had she been able to hear everything, every shouted thought, every dirty little secret, every disgusting notion that had ever passed through the heads of those around her? How long had it taken her to learn how to block it all out? Meeting Scott had been a breath of fresh air, because around him, she hadn’t had to. Around him, she had been able to _hear herself think_.

Emma had loved Scott’s mind. She might not feel the same for Bruce…but his presence was almost as soothing, as restful. The low thrum of his thoughts wasn’t grating. Sitting next to him didn’t involve a corkscrew spiralling right through her brain. No, Bruce’s mind reminded her of Scott’s: an ocean, placid on the surface and turbulent in the depths; miles and miles of empty beach. So organized, it felt safe. It was peaceful.

She kept looking at him, meeting his eyes hard.

“Then what,” she said, “do you _want_?”

Instead of answering, Bruce said, “You’re better than this.”

Better than what, precisely? Better than grimy hole-in-the-wall bars in the city everyone knew Bruce Wayne loved? Better than public hookups with super villains, as if she wasn’t on the terror watch list herself? What had she done to give him that impression?

Before she could ask – or talk herself out of asking – the bartender had come out of the kitchen, and Bruce had turned to look at him instead. The sudden absence of his weighty gaze on her felt like a relief and a loss all at once, and all she could do was refuse to interpret that sensation and watch as Bruce’s entire face transformed.

In an instant, he was smiling at the bartender, sharp intelligence and intensity hidden by pleasant dimness. “Margaritas! For the whole bar!”

Seeing as there were precisely four people in the bar – Bruce himself, Emma, the bartender, and an old man in the corner that appeared to be sleeping – the bartender just blinked at him. “Um…sure.”

As the bartender started mixing the drinks, Bruce returned his attention to Emma, somewhere between his earlier focus and the harmless sweetness of mere seconds before.  

“How have you been?” he asked, and though every instinct screamed at her to bluster or obfuscate, she knew that Bruce could tell when she was lying. So she didn’t.

“It hasn’t exactly been an easy few months,” she admitted. He huffed something not quite a laugh and raised his glass to her.

“I’ll drink to that.”

She brushed his mind with her own, absently wondering what he was thinking beneath the surface calm and, for the first time since the beginning of their conversation, tempted to cheat, but his defences were up. Breakable, but what would be the point? She didn’t want another goddamned voice in her head.

“I heard about Jason,” she said at last. “I’m sorry.”

His hand tightened around his glass. “Thanks. What about you? How’ve…”

She sighed. Thought about deflecting with a sarcastic comment. Didn’t. “Esme and Sophie are both dead. Scott. I haven’t heard from Christian in months.”

“Families, huh?”

She laughed, and if she choked back a sob while doing it, Bruce didn’t say a word. “Yeah.”

“How long are you planning on sticking around?”

The truth was, she hadn’t been. There were scared children in need of protection and instruction, mutants in need of a champion. She might not be Scott, might not be their people’s champion that had spent a lifetime in pursuit of coexistence, but she was all that was left. Cyclops was dead, and she had his revolution to take up. But talking to Bruce…it was as if she’d finally recognized the weight of responsibility dropped on her shoulders, a weight that was too heavy to contemplate lifting.

So even though she knew what her answer should be, knew what she should do, was painfully aware of the endless list of tasks she had to accomplish, she shrugged and said, “A night or two, maybe. Not long.”

Soon, she’d have to move on. She knew that.

But not tonight.

“Stay with us tonight,” Bruce said. “There’s plenty of room. The house…well, it’s been empty for a while.”

She smiled sadly. “Hoping to keep an eye on me?”

“Yes,” he said.

Hmm. Honest. She had to respect that.

“But I _have_ missed you,” he added. A small smile ghosted across his mouth. “You always were an entertaining conversationalist.”

And she didn’t need telepathy to know what he was thinking. Any sufficiently lonely person could have seen it clear as day: _it’s been too quiet._

“Do you really want to drink those?” she asked as the bartender set down the margaritas Bruce had ordered. He considered them for a minute.

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t think I do.”

“Good,” she said, sliding off her stool. “Then let’s get out of here.”

The wistfulness faded from his face. He tossed a few bills on the bar, offered her his arm, and led her out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for this. I'm sorry. It seemed like a good idea at the time?


End file.
